The Blue Danube [OLD]

- 𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫. ﾐ

╲⠀╲⠀╲ ╲

⠀⠀╲⠀╲⠀☆⠀ ╲⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀☆⠀╲⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ★

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀★

april 1859

"George! Oi, ye there?" A sable-haired boy slammed a fist on the door impatiently, other hand shoved in a trouser pocket, fiddling anxiously with a loose string, foot tapping nervously on the rotting wood of the porch. It looked like it was about to break then and there, poor Paulie falling right through and into the gross dirt below, but miraculously, it didn't.
It had been about two days since John had paid a visit to the younger boy, and since then Paul had pretty much gone insane. The fiery-haired (it wasn't really orange, but the auburn locks flared a dark red in the sunlight, Paul had noted) prince hadn't left his mind, not for one minute. Every time he thought about him, butterflies would explode in his stomach and flutter in his chest, cheeks going red for no reason. Lying awake the past two night, thinking about how John felt in his arms.. the look they had given each other while John stood there in his own clothes for christ's sake. Everything reminded him of Lennon. He would see a fucking tree and think of seeing John there in his hideout spot. He had found his box too.. he was glad that he hadn't seen what was in it. It was special, private stuff. John knew where his hideout was now though.. he didn't know if he minded though.

John had left late that night, once the storm had died down. It had been about 1am, and they had stayed up talking all night, about music, piano, books, and everything in between. Paul had watched him go with a weirdly heavy heart, so many emotions flying through him at that moment when he watched John's figure disappear into the darkness. It was so.. casual, fun and just really interesting. John was so interesting, so human. He didn't expect that in someone like him. The way he felt around him was so foreign, but really familiar at the same time. Scarily familiar. But he couldn't hold it in anymore, he had to get it out. And who else to turn to but his best friend, the food guzzler George Harrison.

Speaking of, the young boy flung open the door, clad in just lazily pulled on trousers and nothing else. He gazed down at Paul in dizzy, tired confusion, hair sticking up every which way. Paul noticed love bites scattering across his neck down his chest and he grimaced at the sight.

"Paul? Aye, what are ye doin' 'ere?" His voice was husky with sleep, and a face popped out from behind him. It was Ringo. He looked similar to George, dishevelled and tired, but there was a lazy smile on his face as he spotted Paul.

"Mornin', Paul."

"I..." Paul fell silent. Did... were... George and Ringo...? "Uh."

"Oh. Ringo-" George turned to the older boy, more awake with sudden anxiety and shooed him back inside, suddenly self conscious of his bare chest as he realised they were both very much out in the open. "Fuck. Paul, get 'ere." He grabbed his best friend's wrist and dragged him inside, slamming the door behind him. "Shoulda put a shirt on. Ringo, I told ye ta stay in bed!" George glared at him, who shrugged sheepishly. He was wearing nothing but boxers and a half done up shirt.